


can't get you out of my head

by HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: John is Worried™, M/M, Mention of Redbeard, Mind Palace, Mind Palace John, Post-Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Realization, Sherlock figures out he's in love with John, lots of feelings, mention of Moriarty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 02:35:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7387156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson/pseuds/HolmesAndNotQuiteWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Great Game, Sherlock thinks it might be time to make a room in his Mind Palace for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	can't get you out of my head

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic two years ago. It's half-beta'd and I thought I'd never publish it. I'm barely in this fandom any more but for the writing, but I just couldn't leave it be.
> 
> I hope you like it.

Moriarty had evaded him, for now. That confrontation marked the beginning of a fascinating series of cases, Sherlock could feel it. It wasn’t the only thing he could feel, but it was the more familiar feeling. The second concerned the man opposite him: Doctor John Watson, formerly of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers. His flatmate. His… friend?

In the aftermath of the pool incident, Sherlock realized he’d be needing to make some minor edits to his mind palace- beginning with a room for John.

For a moment he allowed himself simply to study John, commit him to memory in a way he didn’t when he was only deducing someone. The plaid shirt, dark cardigan, kind eyes. John didn’t shift under his scrutiny, simply raised an eyebrow and picked up the paper.

Sherlock closed his eyes and entered his mind palace. He ran down two flights of stairs and along a corridor, past countless closed doors, before he found one that was open. It stood at the end of a hall, a door without a lock- one of the few- and ready to be used. 

It was only as he moved to enter the room that he realized that it stood next to the door that lead to Redbeard, and it was a thought he hastily banished. Nonetheless, it was enough to make him hesitate. 

“Well this could be very nice.” John said, strolling into the room, “Very nice indeed.” Mind-palace John wasn’t so tired, Sherlock noted as he followed him in. He’d been wrong about the room being empty. A few cardboard boxes stood piled around the edges, remnants of childhood thoughts he’d been under the impression were long since deleted.

“My thoughts precisely.” He grinned.

“Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out.” Sherlock frowned, remembering another room to be cleaned, but deleted everything else anyway. He moved to stand in the centre.

Purposefully he stored all he knew about John’s army days in a pine dresser and locked the drawers. John rarely spoke of his time in the military, and it was a part of him kept private from everyone.

Sherlock had just begun to amass John’s medical knowledge- or at least what he knew of it- for storage in a cupboard when he noticed other things appearing in the room.

John himself placed the battered laptop on top of the dresser, screen proudly displaying John's blog. The sentiment, for that was surely what it was, brought a smile to Sherlock’s lips. Next to materialize was John’s Browning, smelling faintly of chlorine from the pool and gunpowder from the shot he fired that saved Sherlock’s life.

Sherlock’s brows furrowed. He hadn’t put those objects there, they had simply appeared. Tentatively he reached out, trying to see if he could get rid of the gun, but it wouldn’t budge. Suddenly a whole batch of objects appeared, bursting into existence and making Sherlock clutch his head in pain.

John’s jumpers were piling up on the bed- the cream one, the stripy one, the one he wore under a jacket when they first met, all folded and waiting to be worn. A steaming cup of tea, like the one John often made Sherlock in the morning, stood on the dresser. 

Mind Palace John sat down in his armchair, which had turned up at some point. “I thought you didn’t do sentiment.” John said, plucking a thread from the pillow.

Sherlock shook his head mutely, then opened his eyes. John- the real one- started to get up, mumbling something about tea and the milk Sherlock had said he’d get at the shops but hadn't. Sherlock’s hand shot out, grabbing onto John’s cardigan. He closed his eyes again and started to go back to John’s room. 

John sat down. “What are you doing?” 

“Mind Palace.” Sherlock muttered, jumping the last few stairs.

“What’s that?”

“Memory technique.” He didn’t open his eyes, instead opting to ensure he’d locked the door to Redbeard’s space. “A mental map. It’s how I store my knowledge. As long as I can find my way back-” he twisted the knob and entered John’s room, “In theory I never lose anything.”

More objects had amassed in John’s room since his last visit, moments before. “Hold on.” John seemed to have noticed something. “You said mind _palace_ \- Oh, of course.”

In the centre of John’s room stood Mind Palace John. Sherlock watch the room shift around him, frowning. It changed without vocation, moulding itself into something so purely John that it was as if John were actually in his head. He’d meant this for a store of knowledge, and yet every object aroused emotion in him. 

“Is this your heart?” John asked earnestly. Sherlock tilted his head to the side in confusion.

“What do you mean?” . 

“If this is your heart,” Mind Palace John continued, strolling round the room with that familiar expression- the one where he was trying to follow Sherlock’s thought process- “then why are you letting it rule your head?”

“I-” Sherlock paused, searching for an answer. “I don’t know.” he admitted finally, slumping into John’s vacated chair. 

“Think about it.”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips to his temples, hyper aware of John’s - real John’s- presence by his side. _Think about what?_ he wanted to ask, but there was something, some spark, in John’s eyes, that told him he knew already. Was it something to do with their… Sherlock searched for the word to describe his relationship with John. They weren’t strangers anymore, hardly acquaintances. John had shot a man for him, offered his life for him- that wasn’t the mark of an ordinary friendship. Or was it? 

Fingers. Not solid. Mind Palace John. Him. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to find John crouched in front of him, Sherlock’s face in his hands. “Sherlock.” It was only his mind palace, but he had to have control. John’s voice echoed far more than it should have considering the size of the room. “Sherlock.”

His breath was coming out in ragged gasps, and real John’s voice began to penetrate his consciousness. “Sherlock?” He sounded scared. “Sherlock, are you alright?” The cadences of his tone intermingled with the echoes of the John inside his mind. The noise was unbearable. Sherlock slammed his hands over his ears, no longer sure if he was actually doing it or if it was just in his mind. 

A barrage of images- memories- assaulted him. John handing him his phone, his words echoing: "Here, use mine"; he was running after the cabbie and hearing not one set of breaths, not one heartbeat, but two. And then the warmth of John's hands as he passed Sherlock a cup of tea; the comforting click of his fingers on the keyboard when he wrote up- when he chronicled- their adventures; the feelings that John's nod, John's affirmation that _Yes, of course_ John would die with him if it was the only way to bring down Jim Moriarty. All was overlaid with the confusing echoing quality of John's voice as he asked Sherlock if he was alright.

It was like emerging out of the depths of water, as Carl Powers could never do. The abrupt clarity of thought that accompanied the surfacing was like the bite of wind on a cold day and Sherlock simultaneously welcomed and rejected it. 

John's counterpart voiced it for him. "It's love, Sherlock." A sound escaped Sherlock- denial, perhaps-; soon silenced by a fond, exasperated- and oh _how familiar_ \- look. "Love." 

Sherlock opened his eyes, slowly this time. John say across from him, terror and concern in his eyes, a hand on each of Sherlock's knees. "Sherlock?" There was a hesitant edge to his tone. Nerves and something else hovered behind the carefully measured words.

"I'm fine." 

"You almost passed out there, Sherlock. You're anything but fine-"

"I said I'm fine," Sherlock said curtly, and got to his feet. He straightened his shirt, fingers sweeping automatically down the join to check the buttons were fastened. His mind raced like the rocket he'd compared it to, and he knew with absolute certainty that he needed a distraction. 

Too easily he dialed Lestrade's number, placing his phone to his ear and turning his back on the man he- he _loved_. Too easy to run. Sherlock grabbed his coat, practically throwing it over his lower arm. "Lestrade," he said in way of greeting when the greying detective inspector picked up, "I need a case now."

"We've not got anything you can do right now, Sherlock-"

"Then _find me_ something," Sherlock growled, and hung up. , Frustrated, he threw his phone vaguely in the direction of the couch, then hurled himself face-down onto the sofa after it. 

"Sherlock!" John indignant shout came right about the moment that Sherlock realised he'd landed on something cold and rectangular- John's laptop, if he wasn't much mistaken. John wrestled it out from underneath him

As John pulled it away, the laptop opened, awaking from sleep to display his blog. Sherlock blinked, mind racing back to the same blog appearing on John's dresser. 

The entry open here, however, was titled- imaginatively as ever- "The Great Game". Almost instinctively, Sherlock scanned the first few lines. "Sorry for the delay in posting," it began, "I needed a few days to get my head around what just happened."

Yes. _Delay_. This... Realization wasn't something he could share. Wasn't something he understood. Something he couldn't "get his head around", as John had put it. 

As calmly as he could, he sat up again. “I'm sorry, John,” he said, pleased that his voice came out levelly. He tapped the side of his head. “Mind palaces can be tricky when I know next to nothing-” _about love_ his mind supplied, “about where Moriarty has gone.”

John nodded, frowning. “He’ll be hard to track,” he admitted. Sherlock nodded noncommittally. “If we've gone no leads, can you go and get some milk? We're all out.”

“Of course.” Smoothly, Sherlock unfolded himself from the couch and pulled his cost on. He needed to think about this. 

A little confused, John watched him head down the street in the complete opposite direction to the nearest corner shop. He supposed he could use Sherlock’s absence to try and find a job. Stepping over an abandoned stack of books, John flicked the kettle on and resigned himself to plain tea again.   
\--

When Sherlock did make it back a few hours later, he was just as confused and irritated- and carrying a packet of instant noodles but no milk.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on tumblr at @the-best-of-the-geeks
> 
> I do take requests or screaming opportunities


End file.
